For once, I had written this column in advance, a rarity for a procrastinator like me. Hurricane Irma inspired me to craft my thoughts around a post-storm life and expectations. I was ready to hit my computer’s “send” button when I heard that a 50-year-old woman I knew had unexpectedly died.
Suddenly, meandering on about a privileged society dependent on first-world luxuries like reliable electricity rang hollow. All that I was left with was a blank page and broken heart.
I stepped away from the laptop unsure how to frame a sentence, let alone an essay. That’s when my friend called me. This loss cut deep for her. And for the next few minutes, we cried together for a life that no longer was, for a husband and young daughter whose wife and mother was gone, for the brutal randomness of it all.
After a couple of minutes, I asked how I could help. My friend paused, still trying to collect herself, then took a deep breath and began her response with, “OK, here’s what I think the family will need …”
She kicked into emotional warrior mode, part wobbly, part fierce, wholly determined to do something. Within the next 24 hours, my friend and many others rallied to do a lot of things — arrange for daily meal deliveries for the family, send memorial donations to the daughter’s school, and so much more, most of which I don’t even know about.
But I what I did witness was a universal offering of unconditional love.
Such kindness isn’t limited to my beloved hometown. Our world is filled with wobbly/fierce/determined emotional warriors who show up and shower love to the wounded. And just as we step in to help, I’ve noticed that we also go through our own kind of grief, distant or far to the unimaginable pain that becomes soul-crushingly real.
As I scanned my original column, there was one applicable part worth salvaging:
Life is a privilege like that of dependable electricity. There is nothing we can do to prevent a storm from ravaging our lives or that of those whom we love. We will be plunged into the darkness, lost and empty among the debris and chaos of a life without order. We will seek refuge. We will be comforted. And when a storm impacts someone else, we will be their refuge. That’s how it goes.
However, this past week, I’ve been mulling this privilege concept. You see, I kind of forgot this thing called life is a privilege, not a right. Me, of all people, the overtly compassionate mom/wife/daughter/sister who ends practically every conversation, call, visit or text with “I love you” to those whom I can’t imagine a life without.
“I’m going to do a load of laundry. I love you.”
“Good luck on your test! I love you.”
“Do you want to grab lunch? I love you.”
Yet, in between all these love shout-outs, the rest of my life has gotten assumed. And by this I mean I assume there will be a tomorrow. I assume I’ll have a chance to baste another turkey, decorate another Christmas tree, share another “I love you” on the way to filling up my car with gas.
I definitely score in the upper atta-girl quadrant of telling others how I feel, but I’m deficient in the actual doing part. I beg off time with friends because there is something else I have to do. I dream about sharing fun experiences with my family, but days turn into months without chalking up adventures worth remembering. I say “no” more than I say “yes” to fully living each day.
If there is any comfort while mourning this most recent loss of life, here is one thing I know: Just this past year, she, too, re-evaluated the priorities in her life and made a change that gave her more time with and attention to those she loved. No regrets there. No assumptions. She made the most of her time here.
So, in her honor, I’m working hard to make the most of each day — heck, hour. No matter how hard you prepare, storms will come. It’s not about how prepared you are, but, rather, how present you were before they arrived.
